One by one, they came to this land, and alone they left. Some were carried home—a spent shell, a broken shard. Burrowed deep into flesh, stories unspeakable. Years pass. Bombs no longer fall. The fields are silent once again and tender grass softens the face of each crater. Shell casings lie below the surface–buried and cold. Chamber of secrets, the ground mourns quietly under the weeping sky. God of the Angel Armies, ransomed for all, comfort us.